


Naming of Bones

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5589892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm an army doctor which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them.”</p>
<p>The words echoed around Holmes' brain until they were all he could hear. All he could think of was the iron in Watson's tone, the intensity in his eyes, the aggressive way he held himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naming of Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for a while now (since about two days after that clip was released). With less than 24 hours to go until the Special, I thought I might as well set it free.

“I'm an army doctor which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them.”

The words echoed around Holmes' brain until they were all he could hear. All he could think of was the iron in Watson's tone, the intensity in his eyes, the aggressive way he held himself.

Part of Holmes that wanted to do nothing more than obey any order that Watson would issue as long as he used that exact tone again. (A very large part. Also, a embarrassingly hard part.)

Holmes imagined Watson ordering him to remove all of his clothes, naming each muscle group as it was revealed, each joint as Watson stroked his fingers over them, announcing how quickly Holmes' pulse was, noting the increase as Watson tested the rigidity of Holmes' erection. Telling him that, while technically not a bone, speculating if Holmes would become bone-hard for him.

Lost in his fantasy, Holmes slid his left hand down the front of his trousers, cupping his the growing tumescence there. 

Watson would note how rapidly Holmes responded to his touch. His hand would leave Holmes' cock and test the weight and size of his bullocks before –

“What exactly are you doing?” Watson demanded.

With a clatter, Holmes tumbled off the couch and landed in an ungainly heap on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Holmes countered rather than answer the obvious. 

“I live here!”

“You were supposed to be out for dinner with Stamford.”

“I'm back.”

“Obviously,” Holmes mutters, shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor.

“So, again, I ask you, what were you doing?”

“We're both men,” Holmes said with as much dignity as possible as he settled himself back on the couch. “I don't think I need to explain to you what I was doing,” 

There was nothing on this earth that would compel Holmes to tell Watson the truth.

“Why were you doing it on the sofa?”

“It's where I was.”

“What if Mrs. Hudson had come in?”

“Then she might finally have learned to knock.”

“Holmes,” Watson growled in a way that was not at all conducive to easing Holmes' current situation.

If anything, it only made it worse. There was no possible way Watson would fail to notice Holmes' reaction. For all that Watson missed much of what Holmes saw, he saw far more than most. And even the most unobservant of idiots could not fail to notice Holmes' state if they were indelicate enough to look towards that area. 

Trying to shift on the couch without making it obvious as to why he was shifting, Holmes refused to look directly at Watson.

“Our drawing room,” Watson said, that thread of iron from earlier running through his words, “is not the appropriate place for such activities.”

It was all Holmes could do not to drop to his knees and ask in a differential tone what activities were appropriate for their drawing room. Then, in his imagination, Watson proceeded to tell him, in great detail, with many direct orders, what activities were appropriate for the drawing room. All of the orders were filthier than the last.

“Holmes!” Watson's voice came from right in front of Holmes.

Yet again, inappropriate thoughts had distracted Holmes from their conversation. So much so, that he'd missed Watson moving.

This could not be good. 

“Watson?” Holmes asked, trying for bored, but was fairly certain came out as deferential and questioning. 

“What exactly have you been thinking about?” Watson's words were soft, but there was no escaping the fact that he wanted answers. 

“I don't really think that I need to go into detail, do I?” Holmes asked, eyes locked on the fire. They would need to feed it soon or bank it for the night. 

“I think you really do,” Watson ordered softly, coming to stand between Holmes legs.

The move was so startlingly unlike Watson that Holmes wasn't at all sure how to react. Watson rarely came this close to him when they were not on a case or strolling arm in arm down the street.

Unable to stop himself, Holmes looked up and met Watson's searching gaze.

What Holmes saw there made him gasp. Gone was his grumpily jovial friend, the solicitous family practitioner, in his place was a mix of Army Captain and the flirtatious persona that appeared when they dealt with even an mildly attractive female. 

“Watson?” Holmes asked, unsure of what to say.

“Tell me what you were thinking about,” Watson asked again, never taking his eyes from Holmes'. “Now.” That one word was an inescapable order.

“You,” Holmes said, the word slipping out without him meaning it to.

“Do you often think about me when you touch yourself?” Watson asked, gaze intent on Holmes'.

“On occasion,” Holmes admitted. 

Truthfully, he thought about Watson on all of such occasions, but Holmes wasn't so far enough gone to say that.

For several long moments, Watson did nothing, but study him and Holmes wondered if now was when their friendship was destroyed. If after all the insults he'd delivered, all the times he'd brushed aside the petty concerns that made up the lives of the average person, (not that Watson was average, far from it), the problems of the mundane, that it would be his fantasies about Watson that finally drove his friend away forever. 

Watson licked his lips and Holmes couldn't quite suppress the small shudder that ran through his frame. In fascination, Holmes watched Watson's nostrils flare, his eyes narrow.

“That's excellent news,” Watson told him, tone easy yet dark.

“Really?” Holmes croaked out.

Instead of answering with words, Watson used his mouth to answer in the most amazing of fashion: he bend down and kissed Holmes. 

Too shocked to do anything but sit and accept, Holmes didn't even bother to try and reciprocate beyond acceptance. His mind going completely blank, his body reacting on instinct so that when Watson's tongue ran along the seam of his lips, Holmes opened his mouth automatically.

It was only when Watson' tongue touched his own, that Holmes was able to do more than accept. While still not quite believing that this was real, Holmes was more than willing to go a long with the delusion and opened his mouth wider to welcome Watson's tongue. (If this was real, then it was the most amazing thing to happen to him apart from meeting Watson. If it was a delusion, which seemed more probable, even without the cocaine he so loved, then Holmes wanted it to never end.)

It seemed that was all the encouragement that Watson needed. In one fluid movement, he straddled Holmes' legs, settling down on Holmes' thighs as if it were something he did every single day. Shifting slightly, Watson brought his cock alignment with Holmes' own.

Watson was hard as iron. Just the notion that Watson wanted him, was hard for him, because of him, nearly made Holmes reach completion that instant of understanding that this was not only real, but something that Watson wanted just as badly as Holmes himself did. (Perhaps not as badly, perhaps nearly as badly as Watson quite routinely found companionship for this activity while Holmes only had his own.)

Unable to stop the moan that rose in his throat, Holmes tried to muffle it by burying his face in the rough tweed of Watson's right shoulder.

“No,” Watson commanded, his hands tugging at the hair at the back of Holmes' neck until their mouths were once again pressed together. “I want to hear you.” The last was said even as Watson started to tangle their tongues. 

Rocking his hips in time with the trusting of his tongue, Watson managed to insert an even darker idea into Holmes' mind. One that he'd never dare dream of before. (Not strictly true: he had dreamed of it before, he hadn't allowed himself to think of it during waking hours.)

With admirable efficiency, Watson managed to get all the buttons on the front of their trousers undone. Unfortunately, their smalls were still in the way. Not that they stopped Watson's from sliding his hand between them and boldly stroking Holmes through the soft cotton that separated them. 

Of their own volition, Holmes' hips arched up into Watson's touch.

“John,” Holmes groaned. A second later, Holmes clamped his teeth shut with an audible click. Never before had he used Watson's Christian name within his hearing. 

“I. Want. To. Hear. You.” Watson reiterated, punctuating each word with a stroke along Holmes' rock-hard member and none too gentle nips along his throat just above his collar. 

“John,” Holmes whispered, spreading his legs as wide as he could with Watson still in his lap.

“Yes.” Watson kissed him in the most filthy manner; all tongue and teeth and wet slide of lips. 

Holmes moaned his appreciation. It was a form of kissing that Holmes hoped Watson would continue to do. (Perhaps forever.)

Watson sucked Holmes' bottom lip into his mouth, then nipped it causing a shiver to race down Holmes' body.

“John,” Holmes moaned, fire burning through his veins hotter and more potent than the purest of cocaine. 

“Again.”

“John,” Holmes groaned as Watson sucked delicately on his left earlobe with just the hint of teeth. 

Abruptly, Watson stood and for one dreadful eternity, Holmes thought he'd done something wrong and this now was the end of everything.

“Stand up,” Watson ordered.

Holmes complied instantly, thought he was unsure of what John (Watson? John? Best not. Best to stay Watson even in his own head lest he slip up at an inopportune moment) wanted. (Though, Watson did seem to enjoy hearing Holmes moan his name.)

“Strip,” Watson said in the same tone that he had used earlier; the one that had started all of this. Every inch the captain. The command that Holmes was certain had sent chills down the spines of his men and meant that Watson had ruled the operating theatre like the most dynamic of generals. “Strip! Now.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Holmes said swaying on his feet.

Not wanting to give Watson any reason to change his mind, Holmes tore at his clothes. It was not the most dignified way to undress, but it was efficient and he needed to be be naked as soon as possible.

While just a quick, Watson, was much more orderly as he removed his own clothing. Which was pretty much how they lived their lives. 

Unsure of what to do now, Holmes stood, naked, before Watson (John), penis as hard as it had ever been, red and pressed up against his belly, a small damp patch on its head. Holmes' eyes roamed over Watson's body, exposed fully to him for the first time. (No speculation could ever have come close to the magnificence of reality.)

Though not quiet as muscular as when they'd first met, Watson's body was still powerfully build; arms and legs firm, shoulders wide, the scar I the left one a faded starburst that Holmes longed to explore. Glancing down, Holmes' attention was caught by the thick, red erection that was pointed directly at his own. 

Holmes' thoughts stuttered to a halt as he took in John (for surely it was John as they stood in their drawing room without a stitch of clothing on and hard) in all his naked, aroused glory.

“Stunning,” Watson said, softly, reaching out and running his index finger from where the pulse beat madly in Holmes' throat, down the centre of his chest (sternum), over the flat planes of his belly, to the (embarrassingly) dark ginger thatch of hair that surrounded his cock (over his pelvic bone). 

“John,” Holmes pleaded. Wondering if it was possible to expire from want. 

“Shh,” Watson soothed, finally taking Holmes in hand. (Too many bones to remember. All muddled up in Holmes' mind.)

The moan that escaped from Holmes' lips was low and filled with need. Nothing had ever felt so good and yet Holmes wanted so much more. 

Placing his right hand in the centre of Holmes' chest, Watson gently shoved until Holmes was back to sitting on the couch. Watson wasted no time in returning to Holmes' lap. Though, this time, without the barrier of clothing, Holmes could feel the heat of Watson's skin, the drag of the find hairs on their thighs tangling together. 

When their cocks touched, Holmes moaned John's name, head falling back to the soft leather of the couch.

“There we go,” Watson said, shifting even closer. Their chests now touched, cocks trapped between their bellies, rubbing together.

“Oh,” Holmes exclaimed in aroused surprise. This was the most brilliant thing he'd ever experienced. (John's brilliance was unsurpassed, especially now.)

“Yes,” Watson agreed before covering Holmes' mouth with his own. They moved together, lips, chests, cocks dragging and rubbing, desire building (raging) in a way that Holmes never imagined could exist. 

This time, Holmes didn't need Watson's encouragement to express his pleasure as there was no stopping the sounds that spilled from his lips. Breaking their kiss, Watson brought his left hand up to Holmes' mouth.

“Lick,” he ordered, and Holmes did without question. 

With a wicked grin, Watson took their cocks together in his left hand, Holmes knew that his crisis would be upon him shortly. 

Their moans mixed into one as Watson stroked them. Wanting to be more than a passive participant, Holmes licked his right palm and insinuated his right hand between their bodies.

“Brilliant,” Watson breathed as he interlocked their fingers without slowing his movements. 

Before long, their breathing was coming very quickly and their kiss degraded into mouths pressed together, tongues swiping when they could between sounds of pleasure. 

His body took over and Holmes let it as there was no way for orderly thoughts, planned movements, basic control. Not when Watson's thumb was sweeping over the heads of their cocks. Not when Holmes could look down and see the way their cocks rubbed together, feel the small jerks and twitches of Watson's cock against his own and know that Watson's pleasure was just as great as his own.

“Close?” Watson asked on an exhale.

“Yes,” Holmes moaned. 

“Again,” he demanded, doing something Holmes couldn't quite comprehend with his thumb and index finger that shot fiery desire through Holmes' veins. 

“John,” Holmes managed to get out as his crisis came upon him; back arching, muscles quivering, pleasure engulfing. As if from a great distance, he could hear Watson continuing to praise him, but Holmes couldn't comprehend the actual words. 

Sweat mixed with ejaculate on his chest and stomach as his body continued to shudder with the most profound pleasure he'd ever experienced.

Limply, Holmes collapsed against the back of the couch; heart racing, chest heaving, willing his eyes to to stay open so that he could focus on Watson.

Watson was letting out a continuous strain of curses and pleas, mixed with 'Holmes' and something that might have been 'Sherlock', along with soft groans of pleasure. 

Their fingers were still woven together, their cocks aligned as Watson stroked up and down with vigor. Though the sensations were starting to tip over into overwhelming for Holmes (and not in a good way), he was loathed to do anything to disrupt Watson who was nearly at his own point of no return. 

Gathering his scattered wits, Holmes raised his left hand and clumsily placed it on Watson's chest. Luckily, Watson was perspiring profusely at this point so it was fairly easy for Holmes to slide his hand along until his index finger skimmed over Watson's left nipple. 

Circling it clumsily, Holmes did his best to increase Watson's pleasure. He held out no hope of being able to give Watson as much pleasure as Watson had given him – Holmes was fairly certain that nothing could never ever feel as good as what Watson had just done to him – but if he could help Watson reach his own release in any way, Holmes wanted to try.

Accidentally, his thumb nail scraped over Watson's pebbled nipple. Against him, Watson froze and for one horrible moment, Holmes was sure he'd done something wrong (again) and that Watson was going to push him away.

But, no. Watson shook, muscles clenching. In their combined hands, his cock jerked, setting off a sympathetic response in Holmes' own cock. If he were capable again so soon after his own release, Holmes was sure he would have climaxed again.

“Sherlock,” Watson groaned softly, back arching, hips jerking as his crisis hit, his warm emissions landing with that of Holmes' own; making them indistinguishably one. 

Holmes made sure to keep his eyes open and fixed on Watson; cataloguing all the new and wondrous expressions on his friend's (lover's?) face. The pleasure was obvious, though it so closely resembled pain that Holmes felt the need to reach up and caress the lines etching themselves across Watson's face. 

Watson gasped again, his teeth clenched, eyes open and staring directly into Holmes', as the end of his release came. The low sound of gratification he made; half sigh, half 'Sherlock', made Holmes feel proud and terrified and happy and sad and too many emotions to possibly catalogue properly at the moment.

As it was, the echoes of pleasure bounced around inside of him, wreaking havoc with his thoughts, and bring forth fantasies fully-formed of what more there could be between them.

Holmes wondered what mystical powers Watson possessed to make him feel such things. Then again, Watson was astounding with his hidden pockets of darkness and corners of glee. No one who thought they knew Watson would ever suspect him of punching men with a grin on his face, secure in the knowledge that he'd broken their nose. (Mostly, they deserved it, but every now and then, there were those who irritated Watson just enough on a case to be on the receiving end of one of his solid punches who probably could have been subdued without such violence.) Nor would then guess that the unassuming doctor was a crack shot who would giggle after he'd killed a man, having no remorse at all about his actions. (In that specific case, the man had nearly killed Holmes apart from being a very nasty piece of work responsible for the deaths of multiple people.)

And absolutely no one would suspect the respectable doctor (former Army captain filled with honour and love of country) of such proclivities as had just occurred on their drawing room couch.)

Then again, no one was more shocked then Holmes himself to be naked on the drawing room sofa, covered in sweat, chest and stomachs dotted with their combined emissions, fingers still woven together now resting on Holmes' upper left thigh. (Femur, Holmes' mind supplied. Apparently, able to recall simple bones again even if it couldn't quite contemplated what happened.)

There was no explaining this away; no clever way for Watson manipulate facts so that the story, as a whole, was presented in such a way as to make sure they were not incriminated. There was no way to misinterpret what had just happened for anything other than it was: an act of gross indecency that could land them in prison. (Not that Holmes thought for one moment that this particular incident would ever be published.)

However, as he and Watson sat there, languid with the after-effects of spectacular releases, cold creeping in, Holmes fervently hoped that Watson would also interpret this as a start and not a finish of another fantastic adventure. 

“What's going on in that fascinating brain of yours?” Watson asked, voice soft and rough and sending shivers down Holmes' spine. (Vertebrae: cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacrum, and all the way down to his coccyx.)

“What happens next?” Holmes blurted out and wanted to clap his hand over his mouth in embarrassed anger. Now was not the time to push at Watson. (Not before Watson got his breathing back to normal. Not while their emissions congealed on their bodies. Not with such blatant evidence of what they had done.)

Watson took such care to maintain a proper image, often times even with Holmes – which was ridiculous as Holmes mostly saw through the facade. Watson, who liked his world views (and the way he viewed himself in that world) to be anything, but extraordinary.

And these circumstances were most definitely extraordinary. 

Though he was in no way a religious man, Holmes prayed that Watson (a man who could shatter him with a casual disregard for what had just happened) would be kind. 

“We clean up,” Watson said, gently running his fingers down the side of Holmes' neck causing another shiver to wrack his body. “Then, we go to bed.”

Holmes nearly bit his tongue in half in order to stop himself from demanding which bed. And whether or not they were to go together. 

“Fine,” Holmes said in as neutral a tone as he could muster.

Watson didn't move and, unless Holmes wanted to push him to the floor, neither couldn't leave to start with the cleaning up.

Not that Holmes truly wanted to move in any case. Even with the encroaching chill, the lovely weight and heat of Watson on top of him was something Holmes wanted to savour for as long as he could. 

With a soft smile, Watson leaned down and kissed Holmes exquisitely tender lips. 

“You know you said that out loud?” Watson asked when they broke apart.

Horrified beyond belief, Holmes tried to work out the quickest way to flee, but Watson knew what he was about and shifted his weight, better pinning Holmes to the sofa. 

“Let me up,” Holmes demanded, but the mortification that turned his ears red made his tone less than commanding.

“Not quite yet,” Watson said, a smile breaking out across his face.

It was a rare, true smile; one that had Watson's eyes dancing, the laugh lines crinkling, and his lips were made all the more appealing by how soft they became. 

“Watson, up,” Sherlock said, trying to sound commanding.

“A moment ago, I was John.”

That fact startled Holmes so profoundly, that he forgot his humiliation.

“And I Sherlock.”

“Do you want to go back to being Holmes and Watson, or would you like to stay Sherlock and John?”

“Can't we be both?”

“Even better,” Watson murmured before kissing Holmes again. This time starting with a teasing nip on Holmes' bottom lip, before sweeping his tongue inside, taking command as if this was how they always kissed.

And, maybe it would be. 

Holmes couldn't think of anything he would like better. Then he couldn't think at all, as Watson shifted over, pressing their bodies together in a way that sent renewed interest shooting through Holmes' system.

There was no way his cock was going to be getting hard again so soon, but Holmes dimly thought that it might be able to in a far shorted time than previous experience dictated. (Some studies had been conducted.)

Far too soon, Watson broke their kiss, though to Holmes' delight, he didn't pull back. Instead, he nipped and kissed his way down the left side of Holmes' jaw (mandible) and along the line of his carotid artery. 

“I love the way you taste,” Watson said, between nibbles, his tongue licking over the spot where Holmes' pulse was starting to speed up again, beat. “I can't wait to find out what you taste like everywhere.”

If the way his cock twitched, Holmes was going to have to vastly cut down his earlier estimate of how long it would be before he could preform again. 

“Yes. That.” Holmes gasped out as John skimmed his fingers over his chest (manubrium, sternum). “I want that too.”

“Me tasting you, or you tasting me?” Watson asked pulling back causing Holmes to emit a sound that was so utterly undignified that he felt a blush rising up from his chest. 

“Both,” Holmes managed to get out, happy that though rough, his voice sounded like his own and not that humiliating mewling of a moment before. 

“Time be getting up then,” Watson said, heaving himself upright. “Best not press our luck too far.”

“Your bed will be far more comfortable than the sofa,” Holmes declared. Should he need to leave (Holmes couldn't imagine wanting to leave), being in his own room would be problematic. From the look Watson was giving him, Holmes worried he might have said as such out loud. 

Without Watson covering him, Holmes immediately felt cold and not a little sticky. It was most definitely time leave the drawing room.

Their clothes lay scattered about and Holmes gave a passing thought to picking them up, but decided against it when Watson bent down to do just that. The man had a truly fantastic arse and Holmes nearly dropped to his knees to better inspect it. There were very faint lines that indicate Watson had been outside in the sun in the altogether and tanned accordingly. That thought lead to what Watson would look like, younger, unscarred, rising from the water (it would have to be water it didn't make sense for him to be in such a state of dishabille outdoors. Most assuredly such an event had occurred while he had been in the Army) rising from the water like a (small) golden god from Greek myth. 

“You could help me, you lazy sod,” Watson said, glancing over at him. The good-natured irritation vanished form his face, replaced and a wicked feral look that made Holmes' gut clench in anticipation. “Enjoying the view?”

Not trusting his voice, Holmes nodded. He imagined gripping Watson hard enough to leave bruises in that supple flesh; a tangible reminded to Watson every time he sat down that they had done together. Imagines Watson returning the favour and with more than just his hands flooded Holmes' brain. 

Bundling their clothes together, Watson came back to stand beside him, then lightly swatted Holmes on his rump.

“Watson!” Holmes squawked in indignant protest. Now that the chemicals released during his crisis were dissipating, Holmes found he wasn't in such a hurry to obey. 

“Get a move on with you,” Watson barked, a smile hiding in his eyes as he turned and headed towards the stairs. 

Holmes contemplated ignoring the order as inviting such orders and swatting was not something he wanted to encourage. 

Or, maybe, it was. Contradicting feelings of arousal and irritation, added to the languid relaxation that seemed to have taken over his body made it more than a little hard to think. Additionally, the tantalising sight of Watson walking away, muscles flexing and releasing, had Holmes up and on following seconds later. 

Six steps up to Watson's room, Watson spun around; one tread higher, giving him an unusual height advantage. Unsure of what Watson wanted, Holmes held still. Today had been full of surprises and Holmes didn't really have enough passed experiences in this type of situation in general (and none with Watson in particular) to extrapolate what to expect. 

“This is it,” said Watson, voice steady, eyes intent.

“It?” Holmes asked faintly, a chill freezing his blood. Surely, Watson wasn't changing his mind and sending him way. 

Desperately, Holmes wished for some sort of cover as he felt more naked now than he ever had ever before in his life. 

“No more running off. No more disappearing.” There was a vein of pure iron in Watson's words that sent a shiver through Holmes. “No more hiding.”

“No,” Holmes agreed. 

“Because I don't do so well without you and I don't ever want to have to live that way again.”

“Never again,” Holmes vowed. “I don't do so well without you either.”

It was a patently obvious statement, but one that Holmes felt needed saying. 

“Good,” Watson said, giving a little nod.

Leaning down – novel – Watson kissed him slowly and thoroughly and possessively. Which was wonderfully good and Holmes wanted to returned the favour, but lacked the knowledge of how exactly to go about it. 

Tentatively, he brought his hands to rest on Watson's hips. That this was allowed – no wanted – now was still something so incredible to Holmes. It would take time (if ever) for causal touches to be unconscious.

Habitual. 

Normal.

Sweeping his tongue into Watson's mouth, Holmes looked forward to teaching himself the habit of touching Watson whenever (in private) he wanted to. 

The notion alone sent a shiver of anticipation through him. 

“Up we go,” Watson said, pulling back. “You might be able to ignore your body's warning signs, but I can't.”

“Won't,” Holmes put in.

“Either way, I'm not exactly in favour of standing here with come and sweat drying on my stomach while I freeze my bollocks off.”

Frank and to the point, yet so often surprising. 

A bark of laughter escaped Holmes' mouth. “Lead the way.”

“You just want to ogle my arse,” Watson said, turning to go up the last eleven steps to his room.

“I don't ogle.”

“What do you call what you were doing in the drawing room while I collected our clothing?”

“Categorising muscle movement I'd never seen before.”

“Ogling my arse,” Watson said as he pulled open the door to his room.

“Ogling your arse,” Holmes agreed with a smirk. 

“Christ, I love you.”

Watson's words, spoken so casually, yet so honestly, stop Holmes' heart before sending it off in a gallop. 

“What?” Holmes managed to choke out.

“Sorry, didn't me to just blurt it out like that,” Watson said, boldly meeting Holmes' eyes. His expression was a little chagrin, but there was no lie or obfuscation there. 

“You love me?”

“Of course I do.” As if to match action to words, Watson cupped Holmes' face as if he were something infinitely precious. Their lips met halfway in a reverent kiss. “Of course I love you.” Another kiss. “Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Was all Holmes could get out, mind frozen, words tangling in an unsolvable mess, too many tripping together trying to get out a single one. “Oh.”

With a soft grin, Watson traced gentle fingers over the arch of his brow (supraorbital arch), the sharp jut of his cheekbones (zygomatic), the swollen tenderness of his bottom lip. 

“How could you ever doubt that I love you?” Watson asked, voice low and rough.

“How—”

But again there were too many words and this was probably the most important conversation of his life and Holmes didn't want to muck it up by using the wrong ones. 

And he so often mucked things up by talking. 

Or, in this case, not talking. Words were horrid and imprecise and he couldn't find the right ones that he needed so desperately. 

“Sherlock, I have loved you almost since I met you.”

Watson, no, John was giving him such a searching look. Holmes wasn't certain what he was looking for, but whatever it was, Holmes hoped devoutly John found it because Holmes wasn't going to give this up now that he knew John loved him. 

“Oh,” Holmes finally got out, realising that some sort of response was required. 

“And, you have loved me just as long,” Watson continued as if 'oh' was a socially acceptable response to such weighty matters. 

As if there were ever any doubt of that he loved John.

Holmes stayed silent unable to trust his voice, blinking rapidly. 

“I can't say for certain how long I've been in love with you,” John said, thumb ever so slowly brushing over Holmes' parted lips, “as one day I just realised that I was.”

“When?” Holmes managed to get out. Not caring about the start, but desperately wanting to hear about the discovery. 

“Does it matter?”

“Incredibly.”

“The morning you sent me off on my own to do the boring work for the Hounds case.” A fond smile softens John's face. “You were stroppy and at the start of being in an unbearable brat and all I wanted to do was kiss you out of your mood.”

“Oh.” So long ago. So many wasted—

“Don't,” John said, tugging Holmes' hair just enough to sting, but not hurt. “Don't play that game, even in your own head. Now is what matters.” John kissed him long with tongue, fingers gentling to tease the curls at the name of Holmes' neck.

“I love you,” Holmes blurted out against John's lips, words suddenly untangling enough for those three simply important ones to slip out. 

“Of course you do,” John said amiably as if Holmes had just said the sky was blue or water wet, but there was a hitch in his voice.

“I am in love with you.” This time the words were well thought out and deliberately spoken. 

The look of joy and love that settled on John's face was one that Holmes hoped to see for the rest of his days.

“Of course you are,” John joked, but his words sounded choked.

Reaching up, Holmes copped John's face. “I am in love with you.”

The words held deeper meaning this time, a promise, a vow. 

“Of course you are,” John said again, this time with all the weight and seriousness that the words required. “And I you.”

Unable to take such emotion, Holmes abruptly turned away and busied with lighting the fire. 

“Build it big and hot,” John told him. “I want to be able to see you for hours without having to huddle under the blankets.”

Lust, sharp and sudden, shot through Holmes. Bending to the task, he built the fire as big as he dared; he too wanted to be able to explore every bit of John at his leisure. 

“Sherlock, come to bed,” John said.

“Coming, John.” Sherlock stood and took the four steps needed to join John. Together, the settled down on John's (their?) bed, Sherlock's head on John's left shoulder, his left arm wrapped low on John's stomach, his left leg tangling with both of John's. Sherlock felt a certainty that this sleeping arrangement was a habit he already formed. 

One that would last a lifetime. 

In a drowsy state of bliss, Sherlock tried to figure out where he wanted John to start with an anatomy lesson of how best to break each bone while naming them.


End file.
